


Want You In My Room

by Pearl Gatsby (DrPearlGatsby)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Dancing, Draco is too Slytherin to be smooth, Draco's POV, F/M, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hermione takes matters into her own hands, Humor, Mentions of Sexual stuff, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, dramione - Freeform, inspired by Carly Rae Jepsen lyrics, just kind of fun and silly, maybe Hermione is a little OOC? or maybe not, muggle music, some swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 08:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21116075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrPearlGatsby/pseuds/Pearl%20Gatsby
Summary: :: Oh, with you I got to get bolder... ::Hermione hasn't let go of his hand yet. She looks at him through her lashes, biting her lower lip again in quiet contemplation. "Do you really want to meet up with them?"Draco has to remind himself to breathe. He squeezes her fingers. "I'm listening."





	Want You In My Room

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired heavily (and quite obviously) by the Carly Rae Jepsen song of the same name.

_Oh, with you I got to get bolder_

_I just wanna get a little bit closer_

_And I press you to the pages of my heart…_

_(I want you in my room)_

_On the bed, on the floor_

_(I want you in my room)_

_I don’t care anymore_

_I wanna do bad things to you…_

**.**

“This is just _painful_ to watch,” Theo Nott groans. On the dance floor of the Muggle bar, Hermione, Lovegood, and Pansy Parkinson enthusiastically twist their hips and wave their arms above their heads. The music is upbeat and joyful—a song Hermione knows—and the other two witches are following her lead, even though what they’re doing isn’t any kind of recognizable dance. It’s a little like the kind of moves Lovegood usually employs, Draco thinks.

Beside him, Potter echoes the thought Draco’s just had. “I mean, doesn’t look too out of the ordinary for Luna.”

“Not _that_. I mean _this_.” A hand comes down on Draco’s back and he starts, whipping his head around to glare at his friend. “Oi, Malfoy,” Nott nods in the direction of the dance floor, “Get your witch already.”

Draco feels his face flush, just slightly, and he glances to see whether Potter is listening. He is, but he doesn’t look particularly intrigued or surprised. “I—what?”

Theo rolls his eyes.

Lovegood returns to the table them, sidling in next to Potter. “I think someone should dance with Hermione,” she says airily, looking directly at Draco.

Nott, apparently, is _not_ to be trusted. Draco coughs in surprise, stalling, trying to come up with a response.

“We’re trying to _help_ you,” Nott insists, elbowing his friend in the ribs. “It’s like I’ve been saying. All those times she pops into your office when she could’ve owled or used the Floo.”

“Besides,” Luna adds. “If you go, I can sit by Theo.”

“Potter can move!”

“Yes, I can move, but I do like Luna’s plan better.”

Draco is rendered speechless. The more they urge him to go, the more his feet feel stuck to the floor of the booth. Theo’s been on this for a few months now, this crazy idea that Hermione is interested in more than Draco’s files and potions expertise. Sure, they’re all friendly now, but he doesn’t dare to _hope_ there’s any reason to believe.

“Honestly,” Potter grins. “Neither of you is as subtle as you think.”

Draco sputters. Looking out on the dance floor again, Hermione turns at the exact moment his eyes find her. Her face breaks into a quick smile before she lifts her arms over her head and twists back toward Ginny. The gesture is playful, almost flirty, and—_Dear Merlin. They could be _right.

“Go on,” Lovegood lilts.

Draco looks to Nott again, feeling as if he has “SLYTHERIN” written all over his face. It’s nearly a year now he’s felt himself impossibly attracted to the girl he used to torment. In the years since the war Hermione has become forgiving, almost sunny with him; but their past seems an impassable chasm. He considers it some kind of justice, this unrequited thing.

Nott shoves him—hard—and Draco tips sideways out of the booth, just catching himself on one leg. He gives the whole table a hard scowl—angry is easier than nervous—and leaves them behind for the middle of the room, approaching Pansy and Hermione.

It’s dimly lit and a little crowded, but nothing too crazy—they’ve had Ministry parties much wilder and drunker. The lights over the dance floor are silly colors—blue, pink, green—and Hermione is wiggling to the music in a patch of blue. Still, it’s Pansy who sees him first, nodding subtly at Hermione and raising her eyebrows at him. She starts to move away and Draco swallows, begging her with his eyes not to leave him just yet.

Pansy smiles wickedly and then shouts his name in Hermione’s direction—“Malfoy!”

Hermione whirls around, nearly colliding with him, and smiles again. In the dim light Draco thinks he sees a light flush come into her cheeks—but it might just be the dancing.

“Are you finally dancing?” There’s something a little like mischief in her expression, a pleasant flush to her cheeks. She’s dressed fully Muggle tonight, a short, tight, longsleeve black dress that leaves her neck and shoulders completely bare. For a moment Draco considers the impulse that has his hand twitching at his side. If he was a different man, he’d grab her by the shoulders and kiss her; if everyone else is to be believed, she’d let him—she’d _welcome_ it. But he’s not ready to be so bold. Again: Slytherin.

“Headed back to the bar,” Draco lies smoothly. “Want anything?”

The song has changed—something no less upbeat—and Hermione bites her bottom lip, just _so_. Draco feels a certain part of himself begin to stiffen. _Merlin_. Then she leans up—her face coming so close to his that he swears he stops breathing for a moment—and places her lips next to his ear. It’s loud on the dancefloor, but he doesn’t miss her low reply: “Not from the _bar_.”

A shiver runs down his spine.

Hermione laughs, grabbing both of his hands in hers and lifting his arms in an awkward forced groove. “Come on, _dance_!”

“Witch,” Draco scoffs. “This isn’t _dancing_.”

“Oh yeah?” She lets go of his hands, shimmying weirdly to one side and then spinning in a quick circle. She leans forward into his space, their faces so close together for a brief moment that she could easily have kissed him. “Then what _is_?”

Draco has been watching the way Muggles dance. It’s not this fun, joyous flailing that Hermione’s doing—it’s much more sexual, much bolder. Again, his hand twitches as he controls the impulse to grab for her hips. “Well it’s not this—this _drunken hippogriff_ thing you’ve got going,” he drawls instead, waving an arm and stamping a single leg in a poor imitation of her dancing.

Hermione shoves at his shoulder without animosity. “You just don’t know how to have fun.”

“Says _Hermione Granger_?”

A corner of her mouth twitches upward and he realizes he’s just used her given name.

“We could try it that way,” Hermione cocks her head at a Muggle couple nearby, reaching her arms up to rest them on Draco’s shoulders. She gives his hands a pointed look, indicating (_Merlin_) that she wants him to place them on her hips the Muggle way. “Come on, _Draco_ Malfoy,” she smiles, drawing out his given name, and this time he knows he isn’t imagining the blush flaming to life on her cheeks. “Dance with me.”

Draco has no choice but to obey. He places his hands against her hips and his whole body reacts as she moves under his touch, drawing him closer with her arms looped around his neck. Carefully, he cants his own hips backward, trying to shield her from _that_ particular reaction.

As their bodies move, Hermione holds his gaze. At this close he can smell her shampoo, just barely feeling the crackle of magic produced by whatever charm is subduing her voluminous hair. Draco breathes deep, closing his eyes just a moment to feel where her arms are tightened around his neck. A part of him wonders if this could be real—if Hermione Granger, the Brightest Witch of Her Age, War Heroine and brilliant coworker and bright spot in every dull day at the Ministry—is _really_, willingly, almost _lustfully_ twitching her hips under his hands.

He opens his eyes again and her expression goes a bit thoughtful. “I have to wonder,” she says, just loud enough that he can hear over the music, “if there isn’t a witch somewhere who would be _incensed_ to see me holding onto you like this.”

Draco blinks.

Hermione looks at a spot just over his shoulder, the only sign that she isn’t entirely as bold as she appears. “I’d hate to be stealing you away… from someone else you’d rather be spending your evening with…”

There’s certainly a problem to be dealt with in his trousers, but Draco leans down regardless, his heart hammering so loudly in his chest he wouldn’t be surprised if she could hear it, too. “Believe me, witch,” he says directly into her ear, squeezing her hips gently with both hands to punctuate the sentiment, “I’m _exactly _where I want to be.”

When he leans back to see how she’s taken that statement, he finds she seems distracted—she moves an arm off his shoulder, and he twists around, trying to see what she’s doing.

“Our friends are leaving,” Hermione explains. “We should probably go, too.”

Draco’s heart sinks. _Just as it was getting good_. “Are you—”

Hermione seizes one of his hands and tugs, effectively dragging him toward the door. As soon as she steps into the night air, her shoulders break out into goosebumps, but Draco doesn’t get long to contemplate it—she’s marching them toward the corner, near the Apparition point. A _pop!_ indicates that one or more of their friends has just left, and when they round the corner, no one is there.

“They’ve all gone,” Draco states dumbly. “Where are we meeting them?”

Hermione hasn’t let go of his hand yet. She looks at him through her lashes, biting her lower lip again in quiet contemplation. “Do you _really_ want to meet up with them?”

Draco has to remind himself to breathe. He squeezes her fingers. “I’m listening.”

Hermione just grins back. Then they’re Apparating—and Draco finds himself in the middle of a smallish living room. There’s an overstuffed sofa and a low table at the center of the room, a hallway at one end, an opening into the kitchen at the other, a window to one side—and the rest of the room is _books_. Every inch of wall is shelf space, and every inch of shelf space is occupied by slightly more books than it should be able to hold—the books are stacked two deep, even three in some places.

“This is my flat,” Hermione says, quite unnecessarily. She’s let go of his hand and is walking into the kitchen area. “Tea?”

Draco opens his mouth to start a sentence but doesn’t finish it. “And what, exactly…”

Hermione sets water boiling. “Books are something we seem to agree on,” she explains, flicking a cabinet open with her wand. “—Earl Grey?”

“Yes?” Draco answers.

“Right, well.” Hermione moves on her tiptoes to reach for a canister of tea on her topmost shelf.

Draco drinks in the view of her rear end, pert and perfect under the short dress. If she could manage to reach just a _little_ more, he imagines, the dress would slip up that last inch… but she can’t. Her fingers are grasping at air. “You’re a witch, Granger. A _witch_!” Draco exclaims when he’s finally had too much, raising his wand and levitating the tea down for her.

“Thank you,” Hermione replies, busying herself with cups and the kettle, not even bothering to turn around. Draco tries to imagine what to say next—the tea has him flummoxed. In his dreams, he prowls around the counter toward her, grabs her by the hips, spins her so he can lean down and taste her lips. But instead he moves to where he can prop himself up against the counter facing her, affecting a bored look.

“You were telling me _why_ we’re here?” he drawls.

Hermione passes him a cup of tea, leaning back against the stove as she sips hers. “Yes. After our conversations lately, I just thought you might be interested in seeing my library.”

Draco does his best not to cough on the tea he’s just swallowed. Maybe he’s misread this. Maybe _everyone’s_ misread this. He responds skeptically, his tone droll. “Your _library_.”

Hermione looks at him for a long time over her teacup without saying anything. It’s arresting. There’s something open and honest in her face, a hint of a smile and a touch of mischief and a warmth to her eyes. Finally she pushes off from the stove, carrying her tea into the living room and standing in front of a shelf. “These are my Muggle books,” she says, indicating a series of shelves. “This series—” she taps at six colorful spines—“are the Muggle equivalent of that detective writer you like, Mathilda Mugwort? Only better.”

“Better,” Draco scoffs, crossing the room after her. “Please.”

“I’d bet on it. Even you would like the exploration of Muggle technology—what they have and haven’t found a solution for. And just above—the Russians. I have a feeling you might like _Anna Karenina_. That’s a start.”

“You wound me, witch. I read Tolstoy at ten.”

“As part of the pureblood wizarding curriculum?”

He snorts. “More like the mildly-rebellious-ten-year-old-Draco-would-rather-do-literally-anything-but-introductory-arithmancy curriculum.”

Hermione looks up at him, her eyes shining, and he realizes that they’re standing very close to one another. She doesn’t attempt to move, only gives him a small smile. Draco smirks down at her, refusing to move as well. “There’s a rumor that Tolstoy was actually wizarding—which apparently held enough water for his books to make it into my father’s library.”

At that, a tiny bit of the light dims in Hermione’s eyes. Draco gestures around her, indicating a particular shelf in an attempt to change the subject. “I don’t think you have enough copies of _Hogwarts: A History_.”

Hermione shrugs. “Some of them are rarer editions, but there are some duplicates.”

“Do you buy it every time you see it?”

“Like some serial killer?” Hermione sounds horrified.

“Some what?”

She waves him off. “Muggle reference. And no—usually, they’re gifts. Ronald has given me the exact same edition no less than three times.”

Draco pretends to study the bookshelves a bit longer. He tries for nonchalance when he speaks again. “He’s out with that Delacour girl every time I set foot into Diagon Alley.”

Hermione chuckles, exaggerating her pronunciation of the girl’s name: “_Gabrielle_.”

“Do you miss him?”

“That’s been—_years_ now. And no. We’re best as friends. I think we always knew it, even from the beginning.” Hermione bumps her shoulder into his, careful not to slosh her tea. “What about you? Does it hurt to see Harry together with _your_ old flame?”

Draco scoffs. “Pansy was hardly a _flame_. We were bored, mostly.”

“Hm.”

Draco walks slowly to one end of the room, scanning the shelves as he goes. He’s interested in knowing the books she keeps, but more than that he’s testing the waters. If he moves away, will she follow? What happened to the witch who all but commanded him to hold her by the hips, who whispered something like innuendo into his ear?

Soon, Hermione is moving towards him—but she’s reaching for his teacup, offering to put it up. When she returns to the living space—just a few steps, really—she comes to a stop beside him, and Draco cuts his eyes toward her form. She’s looking at the bookshelf, biting her lower lip again.

In the time that’s passed since their moment at the club, he’s beginning to lose what little nerve he had to begin with. He tries to direct Hermione back to that moment: “Didn’t know you were much of a dancer.”

Hermione snorts. “I’m not.”

“Well you were certainly doing _something_ with Lovegood and Parkinson.” _And me_.

Hermione glances up at him, smiling cautiously before glancing away again. “It’s easier, in the Muggle world. No one knows me. Plus,” she elbows him gently, a little nudge, “it’s fun to move like a ‘drunken hippogriff’ sometimes.”

“You get out to the Muggle clubs often?”

“Why do you ask?” Hermione’s voice is too casual, and when he glances down, she is watching him. Draco weighs his possible answers, but Hermione sees his subtext, tries again: “Are you jealous?”

Draco feels his face begin to heat.

Her voice is soft: “I hope you are.”

And then she is reaching for him at the same time he’s reaching for her, one of her hands landing on the side of his face and the other circling around his neck, his hands settling one on her smooth bare shoulder and the other at her hip as he brings her closer. Her first kiss is soft, sweet, teasing—a sensual press of her lips to his with a bit of a linger. He kisses back and her mouth opens to his immediately; he sucks at her bottom lip and tastes her, the Earl Grey and a slight scent of alcohol and the smell of her shampoo all mixing into something heady and intense. Their kisses stay gentle until they don’t—until the rest of Draco’s body processes the fact that finally, _finally_ he is kissing _Hermione Granger_.

One of her hands is at the back of his neck, her fingers playing in his hair, her other hand clutching at the shoulder of his shirt. His body and mind is singing—_Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger, Hermione _fucking _Granger_—and then the refrain changes: _Hermione fucking Granger, fucking Hermione Granger, _fucking_ Hermione Granger_ and it’s everything Draco can do to resist the urge to run his hands up and down her body, to pull her against him and press his aching member up against her, to grab and grind and _take_. Hermione deserves better than that. Before he does anything—he has to be _sure_.

“Hermione,” he mumbles against her lips, trying to extract himself. “Hermione, wait.”

She stiffens when she hears him, withdrawing her hands immediately. “I’m sorry,” she says automatically.

“Don’t apologize,” Draco says, squeezing her hip with the hand that’s still resting there. “Merlin, I’ve been dreaming of that for _months_. But I want to be sure we’re clear. I need you to tell me what you want.”

She’s quiet for a moment, contemplative. When she speaks again, her voice is soft. “I want to _know_ you,” Hermione says, her eyes searching his face. “That’s why, the…” she gestures vaguely at the bookshelves. “I want to see you outside the office, without our friends as buffer. And I want to see where it goes.”

Draco breathes a huge fucking sigh of relief. “We’re on the same page, then.”

Hermione’s expression turns mischievous. “Months?” she repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Draco’s face still feels warm. He pushes through it. “You’ve only half-answered my question, witch.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve given me the big picture, but what do you want _now_?”

She places one hand over his—the one at her hip—and slowly runs the hand up his arm to his shoulder. Her nails scratch briefly at the nape of his neck before she leans up on tiptoe, looking as if she might kiss him again but at the last minute changing her trajectory and whispering in his ear again.

Draco catches her—one arm around her shoulders, the other under her knees—and lifts her easily. She shrieks in a mixture of surprise and delight, and Draco doesn’t hide the wolfish grin he feels breaking out across his face as he strides toward the hallway.

She certainly doesn’t need to tell him twice.

**.**

_Baby, don’t you want me too?_


End file.
